Proof of Guilt

by Charles Todd

  He didn’t turn but finished what he was doing and got into the motorcar.

  As he started down the drive toward the gates, he met Bob Rawlings’s eyes and saw the expression in them. It was wariness mixed with anger and something more. A belligerence that seemed to be part of his nature.

  Rutledge smiled and kept on going.

  It’s done. What was done?

  He reached the gates and turned onto the road. Not toward London but in the direction of the village serving the Bennett house.

  Diaz and his helper worked wherever they were needed to keep the grounds in good order. But that very freedom meant that Rawlings could leave the grounds and return without arousing suspicion.

  Either he was meeting someone or he was sending a message to someone.

  Rutledge had to ask a passerby where to find the post office. He had already ascertained that there were no familiar red postboxes in the center of the small village.

  It was tucked inside a milliner’s shop, a tiny square of the British Government hidden away behind a tree of hats and a tall chest featuring gloves and handkerchiefs.

  The middle-aged woman behind the grille looked up as his shadow fell across the book she was reading. Marking her place with a rule, she asked politely, “Stamps, sir?”

  Rutledge cast a glance over his shoulder, but the proprietor was occupied with a young woman choosing laces, their heads together over a tray of samples.

  He took out his identification and passed it through the grille to her.

  “Scotland Yard?” She stared at him, her mind busy. He could see her considering and rejecting possibilities. “Is it about those men at the house?” The emphasis she put on the word all but identified the Bennett residence.

  “I have reason to believe that a letter was posted here. I need to know if that’s true.”

  It was her turn to look around, her voice lower as she said, “There’s only one today, sir.”

  He couldn’t ask to see it. But he could ask who had brought it in.

  “One of those ruffians,” she said, angry. “Walking into the shop bold as you please.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Short, fair, wearing a red jumper and corduroy trousers that looked as if he’d climbed trees in them, they were so scuffed and torn.”

  In fact, Bob Rawlings had been climbing trees.

  She went on, “I’m as good a Christian as the next woman, and I challenge anyone to say anything to the contrary. But I don’t hold with criminals walking the streets bold as brass. My son tells me they’ve paid for what they did, but I ask you, why do they have to come here, to my village? I saw one of them talking to my daughter, and it quite made me ill.”

  “They have paid for their crimes,” he said.

  “Then let them go and live in a city where no one cares who they are.”

  Rutledge said, “I can’t ask you to show me the letter. But I need to know if it’s in Mrs. Bennett’s handwriting or someone else’s. Can you tell me that?”

  “It’s not in hers. I know her fist when I see it.” She glanced around once more and then said, “I must step outside a moment. I’m feeling a little faint from the heat.”

  Fanning herself with a sheet of paper, she left the post office confines, and as she did a letter caught in her skirts went spiraling the floor. She walked on, ignoring it. Rutledge waited until she had closed the shop door behind her. Then he retrieved the letter and slid it carefully back through the grille.

  But not before he had managed to read what an untutored hand had scrawled across the front.

  He left at once, and as he walked out the shop door, the postmistress said, “That one’s a murderer if ever I saw one. I hope he’s taken away from here as soon as may be.”

  But Mrs. Bennett had assured Rutledge that she had taken in only men who could be rehabilitated. He rather thought she’d misjudged Rawlings.

  Or perhaps she hadn’t; perhaps Diaz had found something in the younger man that he could mold toward his own ends.

  Rutledge thanked the postmistress and walked back to where he’d left the motorcar.

  There he took out his notebook and wrote down what he’d seen.

  He stopped in Chelsea on his way into London and knocked at the door of the Belford house. He was told that Mr. Belford was not in.

  Tearing the sheet out of his notebook, he handed it to the footman. “Would you see that he gets this as soon as he returns?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rain caught up with him as he drove down his own street and left the motorcar in front of the flat.

  Later that evening, Rutledge went to the Yard. He had purposely delayed coming in because he hadn’t wanted to encounter Markham.

  Fielding had left a note on his desk, telling him that the luggage van guard’s statement had been collected.

  As you asked, I’m holding it until you have advised me to turn it over to the Acting Chief Superintendent.

  Not good news at all.

  Rutledge wrote a message thanking Fielding, then another asking Gibson for any information he could find on the name and direction he’d taken down from the letter he had seen in Surrey. He disliked depending too much on Belford. A man in his position might easily require the return of a favor down the road.

  Finally, he put in for forty-eight hours of leave, setting the request on Markham’s desk, then drove through the night to Essex.

  He reached it early in the morning, and found the side road that led down to the water meadows at Flatford Mill, where Constable had painted one of his finest works. It hadn’t changed much, and he crossed to the other side of the Stour first, moving through the scattered trees, looking toward the mill buildings that Constable had made famous. The village was tiny, hardly more than a hamlet, and he’d had to walk down to it, the way being almost impassable for his motorcar after the night’s rains.

  The sun had come out, but there were mists still rising from the water, and in the early silence he could hear ducks calling near the weir. Peaceful. That was the word that came to mind. Timeless. He walked some distance before retracing his steps, watching the sun paint the old glass in the windows of the houses opposite a delicate gold. The mill was still there, a hundred years later, and Willie Lot’s cottage as well.

  He crossed the river again, then went down the lane that led to the mill and the houses. Late flowers grew rampant in the gardens, and bees made a soft humming sound as they worked from blossom to blossom.

  Looking back, he could see the angle from which Constable had painted another view, this time of Willie Lott’s house. And then the sun was warm on his shoulders as he walked up the long slope to where he’d left the motorcar.

  It was time to do what had to be done.

  What he hadn’t counted on, on his way to call on Miss Whitman, early as it was, was Miss French arriving on her doorstep before he could leave his motorcar close by the church, out of sight.

  As he cut through the churchyard, Valerie Whitman had just opened her door to Miss French’s knock.

  Agnes French’s disgruntled voice carried on the still morning air, and he could hear every word. As all the neighbors on either side of the cottage must surely have done as well.

  “It wasn’t enough to take Michael’s love, and then Lewis’s,” she was saying, “you must kill my brother as well. Oh yes, I’ve heard from London. It’s all quite true, your grandfather has been taken up by the police. And I want to see you taken up as well, as his accomplice. Because you must have been. He’s too old, Gooding is, to best Lewis, even with his seizures. He had to have help. I’ve come to ask for my brother’s body so that I can bury him decently where he belongs. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll stand here on your doorstep until you tell me.” Her voice had risen hysterically, until she was almost shouting.

  Valerie Whitman, her face as white as the door she held open with one hand, the other raised a little as if to ward off a blow, stood there listening to the diatribe, uncerta
in how to answer the charges hurled at her.

  “I don’t know anything about Lewis—” she began, but Miss French cut her short.

  “Don’t lie to me. You and Gooding were always close, thick as thieves. He’ll not tell the police, but he must have told you. Or did you help to dig the grave? Tell me, where is my brother?”

  Rutledge thought for an instant that Miss French was about to seize Valerie Whitman’s shoulders and shake her.

  Crossing the churchyard at speed, oblivious of the traps for unwary feet, he came over the stone wall and across the street.

  Miss French turned as Valerie Whitman looked his way, her eyes pleading and then dark with fright.

  “He’s come to arrest you,” Agnes French shrieked. “I knew it.”

  He opened the gate, came up the walk, and said to Miss French, “That’s enough. Go home and mourn your brother there. If you know anything about the firm, go to London and help them sort out what to do now. This is no place for you.”

  She was about to protest, her cheeks a mottled red in her anger, when he held up his hand.

  “No. This is not where you should be. She’s not involved. Her grandfather’s statement has cleared her.”

  But for how long? Hamish was demanding, loud in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

  How long before the police too were at her door?

  Rutledge ignored him. “Shall I drive you home, Miss French? You’re very distraught.”

  “I want her to tell me where to find my brother. I want to know how he died. I want to bring him home.”

  “You never got on with him when he was there,” Miss Whitman said. “You can hardly make demands of me in his name.”

  “I loved my brother, which is more than you can say.”

  Rutledge said, “Miss Whitman, go inside. Miss French, I’ll be happy to drive you home.”

  She burst into tears then, angry, volatile tears, and stamped down the path, shaking off his arm.

  “I’ll make her life wretched until I get what I want,” she said, slamming the gate back on its hinges. “I will destroy her. That clerk has told me that I am head of French, French and Traynor now, and I will use the power of that position to run her out of St. Hilary. I’ll see that she’s left to beg on the road, her name anathema to decent people—”

  “Stop it,” Rutledge said sternly.

  Startled, she stared at him. “Does she have you twisted around her little finger too? How am I not surprised? A pretty face, and even an Inspector from Scotland Yard loses his wits.”

  It was his turn to want to shake her until she stopped, but he couldn’t touch her. All he could do was place himself between her and the target of her wrath, forcing her away from the cottage.

  She was still furiously angry, unable to stop herself. He could only hope that before they had gone too far, she would wear out her anger and herself.

  She raged at him when they were out of hearing of the cottage, shouting at him to do his duty and tell her where her brother was, unaware of the spectacle she presented. Her plain face was distorted, blotchy still, and tears had made tracks through the light dusting of powder that a woman wore when outside her home.

  And then, as if a lamp had been turned off, the rage ended. She seemed to know where she was, and with her head down, ignoring him, she began to walk briskly up the road, toward the gates to her house. Her shoulders still shook with her tears, but she kept walking, her mouth set in a grim line.

  He stayed with her all the way to her door, turning her over to Nan, saying only that she needed a hot cup of tea and a cool cloth for her eyes. The maid, an arm around her mistress’s shoulders, almost lifted her across the threshold, and then hesitating long enough to be sure that Rutledge hadn’t intended to follow them inside, she swung the door to. The latch caught.

  He wondered if the shock of finding herself in charge of her grandfather’s firm had driven Miss French to this outburst. Beware what you wish for . . . She had felt left out, ignored, untutored in what brought in the family’s wealth, what supported its position, and now she would be expected to show that like the males in her family, she was up to the responsibility. And she’d be doing it in the spotlight of a murder trial.

  He didn’t envy Agnes French.

  Rutledge stood there staring at the closed door, his ears still ringing with her angry words, and then he turned and walked back to the Whitman cottage.

  But Valerie Whitman wouldn’t come to the door. He called to her and even tried the latch. In the end, he could do nothing more than walk away himself. Back to the churchyard, where he could keep watch.

  After an hour or more of pacing back and forth amongst the graves, he gave up and went to fetch his motorcar.

  When he drove back toward the main road, he saw that Valerie Whitman had come to her gate, was standing there waiting until he drew even with her.

  “Is it true? Has my grandfather been taken into custody for murder?”

  “I’m afraid so. He confessed in a statement. In an effort to keep you safe.”

  “He confessed to what? To murder?” Warm as it was, she wrapped her arms around her, and he could hear her teeth chattering from shock. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. As far as it goes. Matthew Traynor is missing as well.”

  Her eyes flew wide at that. “He’s in England? Or is he still in Portugal?”

  “His ship docked barely twenty-four hours before Lewis himself disappeared. He disembarked, and that was the last anyone saw of him. His luggage went unclaimed.”

  “Dear God. And my grandfather is accused of killing him as well?”

  “Yes. He knew what he was doing, Gooding did, when he confessed. The original plan was to take you into custody, you see. As an accomplice. You would have gone to prison.”

  She had begun trembling violently. He wanted to offer comfort, but it was not possible. He was the enemy now.

  “I didn’t know. I’ve done nothing wrong, I haven’t harmed Lewis or anyone else.”

  “You must be very careful. If Miss French comes again, she may bring the constable or even the Inspector from Dedham. Keep your door locked and stay away from windows. It will blow over, but until it does, keep a small valise packed and ready by the kitchen door. You may have to leave in a hurry.”

  “This is my home. I can’t leave it. I have nowhere else to go. Not even to my grandfather now.”

  “Have you no relatives you could stay with for a short time? Until the shock of this news wears off, and people like Miss French come to their senses?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll see what I can do. There’s the tutor. He lives nearby—”

  “No, please. I’m safer where I am.”

  “Then I’ll ask the curate to keep an eye on you.”

  “Don’t make his life wretched. Please, I’ll be all right.”

  But Rutledge wasn’t sure of that. Before he could argue the point, she had turned away and hurried back into her house.

  He waited until he was sure the door was locked, and then he went in search of the curate.

  Williams had heard nothing. Shocked and alarmed by what Rutledge told him, he stared up at the church tower and said, “What am I to do? I can’t stay in her house—the gossips would make the worst of that. And she can’t come here, for the same reason. If I were as old as my predecessor, it might have been all right.”

  “Well, then, the least you can do is keep an eye on her. If she’s in trouble, if anyone—Miss French included—badgers her, go to the police. Constable Brooks must protect her. She hasn’t been accused of anything.” Or at least not so far. Rutledge felt helpless and very angry. “She’s not her grandfather.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that. If I could find some older woman— But if Miss French accuses her of knowing more than she ought to know, everyone will have second thoughts. It will be impossible to persuade anyone to come.”

  Williams would have passed by the man lying beaten and robbed on the roa
d and left him for the Good Samaritan, Rutledge thought grimly. And then he swore at himself, and afterward at Gooding.

  “Think of something,” Rutledge urged. “I’m needed in London. I’ll ask the police in Dedham to send a constable round, but I don’t think they will have one to spare.”

  He had to do something, but until he heard from Belford, there was not much he was free to do.

  Frances. He could take her to his sister’s house. But even as the thought came to him, he knew it was impossible. He had arrested Valerie Whitman’s grandfather. His hands were tied.

  He said to the curate, “Keep an eye on her. It’s your duty.” And with that, he got back in the motorcar and drove away before Williams could argue or find another reason to refuse.

  He stopped in Dedham, spoke to the police, and was told that they would take his request under advisement. Miss Whitman had neither made a request for protection nor claimed she was being harassed.

  “See that she isn’t,” he snapped and walked out.

  All the way back to London, Rutledge found himself going over every bit of evidence they had so far. He picked up the rain again, and that helped to concentrate his mind. He went first to his flat, shaved and changed his clothes, and as soon as he could, he went to call on Belford.

  The man shook his head when Rutledge asked if there was news. “But I hear you have the chief clerk in custody. Surely that’s sufficient?”

  “Early days,” Rutledge said easily. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence, yes, but I’m not convinced that he’s the right man.”

  “Hmmm.” It was a noncommittal response.

  “What do you know about the name and direction I left for you last night?”

  “Now that’s very interesting. It’s a lodgings in the east end of London. The man Baxter, whose name you gave me, is not the brother of this man Rawlings you mentioned earlier. What’s more, the woman in whose house he had taken rooms hasn’t seen him for several weeks.” Belford walked to the hearth and took down an envelope that Rutledge recognized. “This was waiting for him. She was told that any future letters should be held for our—er—colleague, as Mr. Baxter was of necessity visiting friends elsewhere. She appeared to understand that Mr. Baxter was evading the police. There have been no other letters in recent weeks. She rather thought that Mr. Baxter came from Manchester. She had been married to a Manchester man at one time—she recognized the accent.”